The Photograph
by Cordelia McGonagall
Summary: Hermione and her friends gather every New Year's Eve since the War to let go of the pain they are ready to part with. This year, Hermione is sent a package from Dennis Creevey that moves her to meet with someone she thought she would never have to see again. This story is complete.
1. The Photograph

Thank you to J.K. Rowling for the gift of these characters who are not my own. **Update 3 Dec. 2015 - I wrote "Tell Me How We Met, Again?" to give Draco and Astoria their story. The first chapter was intended as a one-shot, but then I wrote a second chapter to weave their story into this one.**

New Year's Eve, 2003

As the battered Range Rover crunched over the crushed shell path, Harry's heart warmed with peace and gratitude that his Christmas holiday was now so much more than stale biscuits and television at Mrs. Figg's. He'd seen her recently, at St. Polycarp's Home for the Aged, when he spent an hour willingly looking at her yellowing collection of cat photos. It was oddly comforting, but he was rather grateful she was no longer responsible for the entirety of his holiday festivities, such as they had been. Or hadn't.

Harry was jarred by a sharp blast of sea air from the passenger-side window. Ginny leaned her face out into the biting wind whipping around the car. He gave her a small smirk; she loved playing with the window switches on the Muggle car. They'd driven this year to Shell Cottage, as they had just left their yearly visit with Dudley and his girlfriend, and apparating seemed like a bit of an unnecessary strain on the tentative goodwill between the cousins. Besides, Harry looked very much forward to this quiet drive with Ginny up the rocky coast to Bill and Fleur's. With their work schedules and their close-knit circle of family and friends, Ginny and Harry appreciated the time and solitude of a simple car ride.

Christmas with the Weasleys was still always held at the Burrow; Molly wanted - needed - to have the chaos and the fussing. Andromeda and Teddy had come and stayed in Charlie's room. Charlie had happily opted for a large tent with Percy and George; the three men had spent hours together in the war's wake helping each other grieve Fred, and had become friends in a way they had not been before the war. Penelope and Angelina had come for a huge Christmas dinner, and Charlie invited several jolly mates around for late night sandwiches and a raucous game of Exploding Snap. It was Ginny, needing to absorb as much time with her brothers as she could, who was the only one to take in Charlie's friend Donal, blushing and grinning shyly as Charlie brushed a bit of singed card out of his silvery blond hair.

Ginny and Harry had fondly parsed this encounter and all the other banter and news from Christmas for the first half of the drive from Dudley's home, but they had slipped into the comfortable silence of their own thoughts. It wasn't even time for tea yet, but the solid gray of the sky had melded with the liquid silver of the sea, and the lights from Shell Cottage blinked merrily out from the creeping darkness. Fleur's love of entertaining and her and Bill's jobs at Gringotts meant they had overnight guests often, and instead of ruining the cosy privacy of their little cottage, they had built two handsome guest cottages behind their own. Harry always suspected Fleur would have built a dozen cottages if it meant not having a stack of storeys bringing the Burrow to mind.

Harry pulled the parking brake, and Ginny squeezed his hand, gave him a light peck on the cheek, and hopped out of the car, running into the wind. Harry grabbed a large crate of wine and a pie basket and loped stiffly up the drive, stretching a bit as he went.

The blast of warmth from the entrance to the cottage immediately fogged his glasses with air thick with the aromas of roasting chicken and rosemary. Harry elbowed the door fully open and was greeted by whoops and cheers from a crowd who had already begun to celebrate the coming year. Ron was holding a pint of ale in one hand and a wiggling Victoire in the other, while Hermione was wrestling a bib onto the toddler. Ron and Hermione were dating, but they had both confided to Harry and Ginny that while it was lovely and exciting, it was also careful and tentative. Hermione was a third of the Golden Trio, but she had, to Harry and Ron's eventual acknowledgement, been a private person from year one of Hogwarts - a witch who kept her own counsel and secrets. Hermione needed some spell damage care at St. Mungo's after the war because of her torture at the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange, and Ron was patiently giving them both the opportunity to heal and grieve from the losses they had both suffered so young.

Ron finally was able to get Victoire to relax her little knees enough to be coaxed into a high chair, and he used his newly free hand to give his sister and best friend a hug. Hermione put some slices of orange on the high chair tray and rushed over to scoop them both into fierce hugs.

"Ohhh, I am so glad to see you two! It has been three weeks, and I have missed you like mad. I got the all clear from St. Mungo's last week. No more monthly checkups! Luna and I want to go out to celebrate. She just got a grant from The Department of Magical Creatures to go hunt for nargles in Latvia." Harry smiled and caught Ron's eye to mouth discreetly,_ "Who approved that grant?"_ Ron used his pint glass to smother a snort. Luna floated over and pecked Ginny and Harry on their cheeks and wafted away to help Fleur chop a large pile of Brussels sprouts.

As Ginny and Harry settled in to encourage Fleur, who was a few months along with her and Bill's second child, to take a seat and a cup of tea, Neville and Hannah arrived with more ale from The Leaky Cauldron and a large basket of mince pies. Lee Jordan and Dean apparated in separately, each having to run the gauntlet of women asking where their girlfriends had disappeared to. When Parvati stepped out of the fireplace and caught Dean's eye, his blush gave them all something to ponder while they set about making dinner. George and Angelina were the last to arrive; George presented them with a giant chocolate cake, and Angelina brought a potato gratin steaming from the oven.

The clan busied themselves heating, arranging, and plating food, and soon they were all able to sit down at a table which rivaled any Hogwarts feast. Fleur looked up at them all and beamed, and they quieted for her. Her voice was low but steady.

"Let us all hold hands and thank each other for friendship and peace. Let us drink to Fred, whom we love with all our hearts."

They squeezed each other's hands and let go to raise their glasses.

"To Fred," they all said with sad smiles, but smiles, nonetheless.

Everyone tucked into the meal carefully and leisurely, wanting to spend as much time enjoying the food and company as possible. Angelina and George began a private drinking game of "Drink Every Time Luna Says _Nargles_" but were forced to call the game when Angelina conceded, realizing that she would be on the floor before pudding.

Eventually the plates emptied, and everyone cleared their places. Ron brought out a large silver coffee carafe and cups, and Ginny and Harry set out dessert. They ate and drank several pots of coffee so their full bellies would not settle them to sleep before midnight. Bill scooped up a very sleepy Victoire and took her up to bed. Fleur looked as though she'd love to follow her, so Ginny and George steered her up to bed and started in on the dishes while the rest set the table for breakfast and packed up the food, continuing their dinner conversations in the kitchen.

Satisfied that Bill and Fleur wouldn't have to lift a finger in the morning, the party went to get their coats and blankets and wrapped up to go outside. They each picked their way over to the rocky bluff above the beach and stood in a circle around the stone marking Dobby's grave. Luna, because Harry remembered her goodbye words to Dobby at his burial, was given the honor of placing the first sock. Harry picked one with mad rainbow stripes to lay next. Everyone pulled a sock from his or her coat and one at a time, bent down and laid it next to the stone. Hermione and Harry stayed behind as everyone else moved down to the shore. They leaned into each other, Dobby's grave blurring through full eyes. Time had lessened the raw grief and regret, but they were still overcome with the deep gratitude for Dobby's sacrifice. Hermione squeezed Harry's shoulder and led him back to the shore with the others, where Neville and Hannah had built an impressive bonfire. Lee and Dean had conjured some surprisingly comfortable camp chairs, and Parvati moved among them refilling glasses. Bill had rejoined the group and brought a large box of paper sky lanterns.

The toast to Fred was always a solemn one at the table, but the beach lent itself to many random, silly tributes. When Ron suggested a double toast to Argus Filch and the witch on the current edition of _Witch Weekly_, George abruptly declared toasts over and started in on an alarming version of the Hogwarts song, with everyone joining in with his or her own tune. As the last voice finished the song, (Dean who opted to pick a Muggle lullaby melody) the quiet of the waves lapping at the shore was punctuated by two large owls carrying a package the size of a shirt box.

They set it down at Hermione's feet. She looked at Ron, and then the group, and when no one made a move to explain the parcel, she put it on her lap and pulled an envelope addressed to her off the top.

_ Dear Hermione,_

_It was so wonderful to see you at The Leaky Caludron last week. Neville and Hannah __keep me up with everyone's comings and goings, but I am glad you are well, and I hope __to see you again before too many years pass! __When I was home for Christmas, I continued to sort through Colin's __photographs. It upsets Dad too much, so he left them for me. Hermione, I spent __a week thinking about this photograph and wondering what to do with it. Colin __was an amazing storyteller with his camera, and in this picture, I feel like I read a chapter __of a story that wasn't for me. There are two copies. I sent them both to __Draco Malfoy last week. I felt, and maybe you will see why, that he should have __them. He returned one to me, with no explanation - just a brief note of thanks. __I am guessing that this is permission to send this to you, Hermione. You __will, I hope, forgive me if this photograph is not welcome, but I have sent several __photographs over the years to friends and family, and it makes me feel, just a __little, like Colin is alive when I see his work on the walls and mantles of their homes._

_ Fondly,_

_ Dennis Creevey_

Hermione wasn't sure what she was expecting, but this was most definitely not it. She looked up, anticipating everyone's eyes on her, but Lee had pulled some fireworks from a bag, and the partygoers had gone to the water's edge to set them off.

Carefully, she slid the box open and pulled out a photograph the size of a sheet of notebook paper. It was from her sixth year at Hogwarts. Her face had aged into the early dawn of womanhood, and she was wearing a white blouse and a small pearl necklace that were visible under her black school robes. Her hair was casually done in a messy bun, and she was sitting at a table. It was Potions - it had to be - there was a cauldron in the foreground in front of her. Her body was facing the camera, but her face was turned toward Ron, her head cocked toward him listening to him as he whispered something in her ear. She was smiling. Feeling nostalgic, Hermione was charmed by this private moment, but the photograph was not centered in the space between them. Hermione's right hand was the center of the composition, her thin fingertips carefully manicured and lazily holding a quill. Her eyes scanned past the quill, and she drew a deep breath, almost letting the picture blow away. Draco Malfoy was seated slightly apart from the pair, and his face was turned in the same direction as hers, but he was not eavesdropping. He was gazing at her - Hermione looked again to be sure, but it was shockingly clear - with a face absorbed by pure longing. Hermione's breath shuddered, and she started when she realized she'd been holding it for several seconds. She looked yet again at his face. She had never seen it composed in that way, ever. She'd seen his face point toward others with amusement, anger, curiosity, interest, or boredom, but she had never seen him face her with anything other than contempt.

Ron missed Hermione's presence at the fireworks and wandered back to the fire to check in with her. Wordlessly, she handed him first the note, and then the photograph. Ron read the letter with a bemused expression and then settled on the picture. His eyes, like Hermione's, smiled at their younger selves, but she watched them grow wide, and then blank, when he took in the rest as she had. He looked up at her.

"Well, er, that is. Hmm. Quite a story," he said quietly. He looked at her thoughtfully, smiling at her peacefully to reassure her, when she started to knit her brows. "What do you want to do with this, Hermione? I am smitten with how lovely you look. It brings me right back, but, ahh, I am pretty sure I don't want this on my mantle." He grinned awkwardly.

Hermione looked away and chewed her lip. They sat in silence for a moment.

"You always do want to get to the bottom of things, don't you?" Ron said softly. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her head turned toward the fireworks.

"Auld lang syne." He shrugged. "Hermione, we have a couple of hours before midnight. And I don't want to tell you what to do, but I will say that I think you should go." She turned to him in surprise, and he drew a breath, shaking his head to keep her from interrupting. "Find Draco. I know you, and I know that you will maybe not think about this much, but you will think about it. You like to solve puzzles. And if you want to tell me about it when you get back, you know I will always listen." Ron pulled her close and gave her a kiss so full of meaning that it made her momentarily lightheaded. He gave her a final peck on the forehead and walked over to watch the fireworks. Ginny and Harry had summoned their Patronuses, and they chasing each other over the water.

Hermione stared after him, and then walked over to Harry, who was smiling as his stag cantered around him. She paused to admire it and then drew close.

"Harry, is Draco Malfoy still on probation?"

Harry started, not expecting such an incongruous question. He fished in his pocket for a small glass tablet and pulled it out, flipping it toward Hermione. "The wizards have taken a page from the Muggle world, for a change." he said, holding up the device and poking it with his wand. "I have my files here. Yes, yes, he is. He's in his final year of Healer training at St. Mungo's. I heard he is doing some study at a Muggle medical school as well. He paid his debt to the Ministry by doing hours at a free clinic for Muggles. My Tracer says he should be at St. Mungo's this evening. Why?" Harry looked at her shrewdly. Did something upsetting come in that package?"

"No, Harry. Nothing upsetting. Harry, I will be back soon. There is something I need to take care of. It's not anything to worry about, and Ron knows about it." She kissed his cheek. "Tell everyone I will be back in a little bit. Before midnight."

Harry, used to Hermione keeping her own counsel, nodded. He watched her gather her things and then turned back to the fireworks, just in time to see Lee and Parvati doing handstands in the sand.

...

Hermione leaned in close to the glass at Purge &amp; Dowse, Ltd. and whispered, "I need to see Healer Malfoy," to the lopsided mannequin inside. She waited a moment, giving her enough time to begin reconsidering her recklessness, when the glass dissolved and she found herself in St. Mungo's waiting room. The receptionist was poking her quill absently at a sadly drooping miniature Christmas tree.

"May I see Healer Malfoy, please?"

The elderly lady straightened, her eyes narrowed.

"Are you another one of those reporters from _The Daily Prophet_? No. Go away. Not after that last article. He is doing good work here, he is, and we'll not have any of you lot poking at him any more. Scoot." The graying witch made a show of looking menacing, and Hermione took a step back.

"No, er, I am not a reporter. Please, I am a-a frie..." The word died on her lips. Could you be so kind as to page Healer Malfoy and tell him Hermione Granger is here to see him?"

The receptionist looked at her out of the corner of her eye and folded a tiny paper airplane that zipped into a small hole in the ceiling above her desk.

"Third floor," she said, reluctantly.

Hermione muttered her thanks and grabbed the nearby elevator. She exited into another reception area, with a nurses' station with several nurses and Healers flipping through charts. She wasn't sure if she should approach one of them, when she saw Draco, halfway down the end of a corridor, clutching the small paper from the receptionist downstairs. His back was to her. With a furtive look at the staff now looking at her curiously, she rushed down the hall before she lost her nerve. She saw him stop at an alcove near a window, where there was a small sitting area and a patient wearing a housecoat picking at a monochromatic dinner on a tray. He grabbed a spoon from her tray, bent over the ailing witch, and scooped a bite of her meal into his mouth and promptly gagged. He pointed his wand at her tray, vanishing her grey meat and summoning a grilled lamb chop and salad from the kitchens below and pointed his wand at the unlit candle that had appeared on the table.

"Mrs. Jenkins, I haven't eaten anything since my shift started at seven this morning. I really need you to eat something for the both of us." Draco sounded harassed, but there was tenderness behind the words. He put her hand on the back of her chair and turned to face Hermione. He had known she was there by the lack of surprise in his eyes. His face was unreadable, and it occurred to Hermione in that moment that Draco had probably gotten better lessons in Occlumancy than Harry had. He sighed and said, abruptly, "I have to eat something or the nurses will gang up on me. Meet me in the tearoom in five minutes." He turned and pushed into a room with his back, and disappeared.

Hermione stood, rooted, for a moment, watching Mrs. Jenkins smile over her tray and chew happily. She turned and found the elevator and found the tearoom on the top floor. She ordered a cup of tea and had a seat, clutching the box with the photograph in her lap. She barely had time to add sugar to her cup when Draco appeared, showered and in a fresh white shirt and black trousers. He looked as crisp and elegant as he had in school, but the end of his shift had left him with faint purple shadows under his eyes that Hermione imagined had been there for quite some time.

He sat, studying her carefully, quietly, for just long enough to make her start to put together something to fill the silence, and then he said, "Lamb chops." A plate like the one he had summoned for Mrs. Jenkins appeared on the table. "Have you eaten, Granger? The elves here outdo themselves."

"Um, yes. I have, Draco..."

"Well," he cut her off. "If you didn't come here for the food," he smirked ruefully to himself, "Why are you here?"

Hermione realized that she had never prepared what she was going to say, and she was regretting that richly at this exact moment.

"Draco...have you ever taken Felix Felicis?"

"If I had, Granger, I probably wouldn't be poking at rashes and burns all day."

She faltered and then gathered her thoughts again.

"Well, I have, just a bit. Not even a full dose. And you feel strong, and wise, and wonderful, and you know what you need to do, and how to go about doing it. You feel what needs to be done - you don't just know it. And, when I opened Dennis' letter,"

She watched his face tighten slightly.

"I knew that I had to see you. It seemed like the right thing to do. We - some of us from the Order, some of us who fought and survived - have this tradition we started after the War, we let go of what we need to on New Year's Eve. And when that picture came, right before I let go of things...I just needed to...Ron told me I should come..."

Draco had been shoveling food in this whole time, apparently used to eating when he could, through anything, but with this he held his fork just below his mouth.

"_Weasley_ sent you?"

"No," Hermione said. "I sent myself. He knew I needed to go." Hermione looked up to see Draco had his forehead in his hand, looking down at the table. He slid his face up in his palm and looked at her. His face was open, finally, and he looked shattered. It gave her a bit of courage somehow.

"I wanted to come, Draco. Because Colin told a story - our story? And I had never heard it before. He isn't here to...to tell the rest of it. I can't, as Ron said, frame this on my mantle, but I really can't stow in a drawer. And I definitely can't let it go. Can you tell me the story?"

Draco took a long pull from the cup of black coffee on his tray.

"Did you know the terms of my sentence after the war?"

"No, Draco," she murmured.

"Well, my family had to give away the majority of our wealth, but the Wizengamot felt that as a man barely out of childhood, I could very easily not learn from that and become extremely bitter...and dangerous. My father had been given the Kiss and left to decompose in Azkaban, and my mother faded into a shadow of herself, but I am young, and they felt they had to reform me, somehow." He stared for a moment at his plate as pain flickered across his face. "I was sent here, to the Spell Damage ward, for work with the Healers. I was sent to work with a Muggle doctor who is married to a wizard, and she took me to a homeless shelter three times a week for a year to care for the people there. I'll admit that was clever of them; it reinforced every thought I had about Muggles. At first. They were hoping that I would find a shred of my humanity, and I did, although I am not sure if their heavy-handed tactics or relief from the madness of the Dark Lord was more healing to me." He shrugged. "But it turns out, I like it here. I am an excellent Healer. I like to study Healing, and Muggle medicine is more useful than many realize, as much as it pains me to admit it," he smirked. "It felt good to study, to methodically make my way through a course, a text, with singular focus. It feels good, oddly, to be so worn out at the end of a day that I know I won't have nightmares. It feels good to have a plan that for once, I can tell everyone. But I would bet that the Golden Trio might agree with me about that." He raised his eyebrows and ate another bite of food.

Hermione nodded, taking his speech in. "Yes, the war made us all do things we didn't want to do. But some of us have an easier time living with ourselves about what we did."

Draco nodded grimly and pushed his food away.

"I am glad that you have done so much good, Draco. It suits you."

"You didn't come here for the five-minute class reunion, though did you, Granger?"

"No."

Taking a breath, Draco pushed away from the table. "Walk with me. Outside. I need air." Draco held out his hand. Hermione stared at it and looked up at him. He rolled his eyes and started to pocket his hand when she grabbed it. His hand was cool and soft. "Are you okay with apparating, Granger?"

"Yes."

She was pulled toward him and suddenly found herself in a deserted London park. She held his hand long enough to wonder why she was still holding it and then let go. Draco began to walk, and she suspected that looking ahead was the only way he would be able to get out what he had to say. She walked along side him, silently.

"I tried to make a friend of Potter on our first day at Hogwarts. He wasn't interested. I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was. No one had ever not wanted me on his side before. I'd been taught that Weasley was poor, and his father was soft. I was indignant that Harry liked him. Jealous. And then you were the third, and you were the one who pulled the rug out from under me."

Hermione's eyes shot up to meet his, but she stayed silent, listening hard.

"Surely you knew this at your Muggle primary school? Were _you_ friends with the second in _your_ class? My father teased me until I was in tears because I wouldn't shut up about you, and then he mocked me for crying," Draco sighed.

"Then, because I placed myself in firm competition with you, Granger, I watched you. I wanted not only what you had earned in the classroom, but what you had earned through your kindness and loyalty. No one would have saved me from a troll - and I wouldn't have risked my own skin for anyone. But even that first year, having lackeys wasn't a substitute for friendship, as much as I tried to convince myself that it was better." He walked quietly for a moment, the click of their shoes on the pavement the only sound between them. "Then, to complicate my jealous loathing of you, you became..." Draco stopped, and turned to look at Hermione, to see her face when he continued, "...beautiful. I'd spent so much time watching you, just you, Granger, that other girls like Pansy, or Cho, or Fleur, even, were off somehow because you were how a girl was supposed to be. When I saw you out of our black school robes at the Yule Ball, you were so lovely that it hurt to look at you."

Hermione was so shocked to hear these words come out of Draco's mouth that her brain had shut off. This didn't stop the tears from swimming in her eyes, and she tried to lift her face and blink them away before they spilled.

"Draco, you were s-so horrible to me. To us. I didn't know Mudblood was a word until you chose to call me one. The War...the Manor..."

"I am so sorry," he said, his voice low.

Hermione stared at him, waiting for more.

"No." He looked resolute. "No excuses, Granger. I am sorry. I've had to do enough apologizing since the War that I have learned that excuses won't do. And I am especially sorry that I didn't apologize to _you_, first." Hermione had never seen Draco look sad before.

Now the tears were spilling freely down Hermione's face. She wiped them with the sleeve of her jumper, not knowing what to say.

Draco sighed, unsure of where to put his hands. He wrapped his arms across his chest, his awkwardness seeming foreign to them both. He ran a hand through his hair and murmured so softly it was just above a whisper in her ear, "I'm not done."

Hermione nodded for him to continue, and they went back to walking.

"I thought you were so beautiful that my feelings scared me. I started to think I might be able to make you like me, even after all of the wretched things I had said and done. I was too far gone, though, and I knew it. I was so afraid of you, of failing you, of failing myself, my father, Voldemort. Fear turns to hate so easily, and I knew how to hate you, Granger. I really did a good job at it. I was first in our class in anger."

They passed a bench and Draco looked suddenly weary, so much so that when Hermione moved to sit, he collapsed beside her.

"That picture was taken around that time, Granger. I know now that I loved you. But I wasn't at all good at love. I didn't know how." He looked up at the stars that were twinkling stubbornly behind wisps of cloud.

Hermione looked at Draco. His eyes were overbright, but his face was calm. He looked lighter.

"Draco?" Hermione had her own thoughts, her own memories from a girlhood that felt more than a few years ago.

"Mmm hmm?"

"I wish..."

"Do you?" he cut over her, smiling ruefully. "I don't know what to wish for. I don't trust myself enough to know yet. Maybe someday. Do you want me to keep going?" He looked at her, shyly.

"I- yes."

They both stood, and walked slowly on. Draco scooped her hand in his, and Hermione reflexively leaned into him.

"Her name is Astoria. She is...light. She is kind when I would be terse. She is mindful when I would be thoughtless, deliberate when I would be impulsive. She is as open as Loon- Luna - and I have never seen her afraid to do what is right. I met her recently when she brought a relative in for care. I like her. Very, very much. We are just starting out, but she is teaching me how to care for my soul I was fortunate enough to keep." He paused and smiled as though he'd just pocketed an empty bottle of liquid luck. "And I think she would understand, though I am not yet myself brave enough to owl her about it first, if I were to show you what I felt in that picture. If I were to kiss you, right now."

Draco stopped and looked down at Hermione, and with a gasp she recognized the face that she had seen in the photograph. It was Hermione who then stepped toward Draco, and he swiftly matched her step and put one hand on her waist, the other on her cheek, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. Overwhelmed by this tenderness, Hermione put her palm on his heart and leaned into him. He captured her lips with his, and Hermione was drowning in waves of emotions, too jumbled to surface. The kiss lingered gently, and when Draco pulled back to end it, Hermione knew she had to kiss him back. This kiss was more insistent, lips, tongues, and two small moans of pleasure when Draco gently threaded his fingers through the hair at her nape and Hermione curled her arms around his neck, pulling him tightly into her. Gradually and reluctantly, it softened, and Hermione broke it with one, heartbreakingly soft kiss. Draco leaned his forehead to hers and kept his eyes closed for a long moment, letting his breathing settle into a calming rhythm. When he was ready to speak, he did not let go of her.

"I am so sorry, Hermione."

"I wanted to kiss you, Draco."

"That isn't why I am sorry."

Suddenly in that flotsam of feelings, Hermione knew exactly what Draco was sorry for.

"Why did you let Dennis send me that photograph?"

"All this time I watched you, and I taught my worst self to hate you, I still saw your good. Hermione, you are beautiful, smart, but your goodness shines the brightest. And though Astoria is different from you in so many ways that I find myself delighted, for once, to continue discovering, she is good. Like you. I guess you lot aren't the only ones who have things they need to let go of." He paused, and then said with some urgency, gripping her arms in his hands, searching her face, "Tell me you are happy, Hermione. I need to know that you are happy." It occurred to Hermione just then that he could read her face - that he had been studying it for years.

Hermione breathed, then spoke.

"You may have heard some Muggles say everything happens for a reason. They look for the lesson that was worth their suffering."

"Not the homeless ones, generally." Draco shook his head slightly.

"No, I wouldn't think so. I don't believe it, either. But I do think, like Astoria might, I suppose, that you need to be mindful and be ready for the lessons life has to teach you, by accident or on purpose. Ron left me, once."

Draco's grip on her tightened.

"Harry was with me. Ron let a Horcrux nurture his jealousy and frustration and fear, and he just. Left."

"I'd read about the Horcruxes in the paper. I can't believe you carried them around. No wonder."

Hermione nodded and continued, "I have never, ever been so alone. I cried for days and days. When he came back, I learned that in that moment, he would never leave me again. He was in my Amortentia when I was sixteen, and he is in there now. He drives me crazy in all the ways." She smiled. "I am very happy, Draco," Hermione said as she squeezed his arm and pulled away from him, stepping back to his side.

Draco smiled back. "Hermione," he said, enjoying the sound of her name, feeling like he could use it now, "I am learning to look for the light and the love that life will offer me. I am going to see Astoria tomorrow and tell her about you, and how I may have loved you properly, once, if I had been better." Draco looked up from watching their path and nodded to himself. "I am going to thank her for making me better so I can hope to love her the way she deserves to be loved." He looked away and smiled fondly. "She makes me want to be better. It hurts sometimes, but in a good way. Like stretching." Draco grinned. The handsomeness of it made Hermione's breath catch.

"Draco, if you had smiled at me like that in school, I may have wanted you to love me. Very much." Even after his honesty, Draco was caught unawares by this. Hermione gave it a minute to settle into a small, comforted smile on his face. "Thank you for seeing me. Let's go home." She pulled him into a hug, and when she finally pulled away she touched his cheek, smiling. Then she stepped back from him, turned, and disapparated.

Draco sighed a tired, shuddering sigh and ran his hand through his hair before he vanished from the park to home, onion soup, a hot bath, and a dreamless sleep. His scars still hurt. But all was well.

Hermione appeared with a small pop that was easily drowned out by the last of the fireworks. Neville, Parvati, Dean, and Hannah were singing the last of "Auld Lang Syne," and Lee and George were hooting loudly into the night.

"WE LOVE YOU, FRED, YOU GIANT PRAT!"

Ron approached her with a worried look, and she ran to him, crushing him with a hug.

"I love you, Ronald Weasley. I am so glad it has always been you."

He smiled, his concerned eyes ranging over her, her windswept hair, her blazing eyes, but as he added it all together in his head and came to a positive sum, he beamed at her.

"I love you too, Hermione. Always you." His words were gentle and even.

He kissed her softly and led her back to Bill who was opening the box of paper lanterns. Fleur had padded down to the shore in a dressing gown wrapped over her bump and was curled up on a chair he had pulled close to the water. Everyone gathered quietly to take a lantern, and Ron leaned into Hermione and whispered.

"Are you ready to do this now? Are you sure?"

"Oh, yes, Ron."

As she lit her lantern with her wand, she caught Harry's eye and realized he had been searching her face for several moments. She nodded at him happily, and he smiled back, reassured. They all let their lanterns go into the air and watched them float over the water, until they disappeared from view. All was well.


	2. Draco Receives a Package

Once, Draco's marks had come with a letter from Professor Snape attached, layered in toothless threats and prying questions. His father had sneered at the baseless arrogance clinging to the parchment, and then, with a white hot fury, he'd locked his son in the Manor library for three weeks.

Pacing close to the book-lined walls, Draco had plotted his father's murder ten different ways, and in between felonies fantasized, he read. He'd first started with a book of poisons, searching for one a bezoar wouldn't absorb. Gradually, he'd wandered from murder to philosophy, and then literature, history, calculus, languages. When he was finally let out, shaky and half mad, he'd continued to read.

Months later, the Dark Lord had asked a question, and without thinking of the red, terrible eyes or the danger of speaking out of turn, Draco had rattled off an answer, citing two credible sources.

**..o0O0o..**

The short, icy walk to his flat stiffened his muscles, and he wearily climbed the stairs, frowning at the bloom of brine on his salt-crusted shoes. He couldn't remember what the question Voldemort had asked him had been, years ago. Draco rolled that in his mind as well—how utterly mundane and forgettable the man himself was, once the danger and fear were peeled away. There were so many other things worth remembering—odd things at odd times. The first International Warlock Convention was held in 1289. The bäckahäst, unlike the kelpie, can be cunningly harnessed for work. The Sami people have dozens—hundreds of words about snow. This is what Draco thought about as he examined his shoes, needing hundreds of words for snow.

He didn't know any of these words for snow. He did have more words for _tired _than he'd ever thought possible, each one summoned, considered, as he welcomed a new kind of fatigue that moved deeper and farther than those that had come before.

Tonight's tired had a jittery need to be done with Healer's rounds. He barely had enough rest to recall the spell work to heal a poisonous bite from a cursed toast rack; his mind instead wrapping him in the soft, quilted memories of golden curls and small, articulate hands. Tonight's tired had the angry prickle of musts barring him from wishes. His eyes ached.

The numbness from fatigue was, in some ways, welcome. It had protected him. He'd gotten so much right at St. Mungo's. It helped him with the self-loathing that had come to stay when he realized he'd done everything else wrong. His weariness almost let the box propped by his door escape his attention. He hadn't been expecting a package, and he found himself being annoyed with a brown paper parcel. Just another damned thing.

He kicked it into his entryway and ignored it as he showered. The shower loosened his muscles, and he relished the warmth. Astoria had opened him; he paid attention to her, and she paid attention to everything. Her mindfulness vibrated in him as the shower worked its magic. He dug around in his bureau to find his softest flannel pajamas, and he took some time with a simple meal—_Make it worth eating_, she'd say, as she'd rummage for the heaviest pan in his kitchen. Low heat, eggs, cream, butter, a few flakes of sea salt.

He sat, poured himself a cup of tea, and ate as he examined his owl post—two bills and an invitation to Pansy and Theo's wedding. He couldn't dare imagine—yet—being married. He'd only just started to accept the foreign currency of happiness. He let a flirty smile settle into his thoughts, and he reminded himself that he wouldn't have expected to scramble his own eggs or dress other people's wounds.

Or be alive to fancy Astoria Greengrass.

He took a deep breath, shoveled an ungracious mouthful of egg, and summoned the package.

One surgical swipe of his wand, and the package lay open in front of him—a manilla envelope with a letter attached.

_Draco,_

_I would have, until last week, happily knocked your teeth out had I the opportunity. But then my girlfriend Caroline was your patient. I was with my father when she was taken to St. Mungo's and didn't get the news until the worst had passed. She said you got your arse chewed in the hallway by a senior Healer over your changes in her care, but it turned out you had been right. She said you were calming and kind. I'd not have believed any of it, but I showed her some of Colin's pictures I'd been sorting, and she picked you out. So thank you. She means everything to me._

_I brought a box of Colin's photos to the hospital to sort with her, and we found this. We both knew Colin saw something, but only you, now, would know what that was. He'd made two copies for a reason, I think. I'm sending them both to you to decide what to do with them._

_Regards,_

_Dennis Creevey_

Draco ignored the discarded threat. He snorted at the story. _What was the standard of care when people thanked him for doing his job correctly? Photos? Blackmail?_ He looked back at the letter. No clues. He slid the photographs out of the envelope, and his heart started to pound.

There were no coherent thoughts, no story to tell. A flood of feelings, a icy tidal wave of them, knocked him back. Regret was tiny, jagged stones that scraped him open as longing, envy, love, lust, and anger pulled him out to sea, deep to the memory of despair he'd not felt in some time.

_Hermione_. That elegant face, so composed that he'd called her Mudblood to remind himself that he shouldn't find her perfect. A tiny pearl earring drew his eyes to her ear, wisps of brown hair curled. More pearls at her collarbone, her white blouse open by two buttons. She'd had her hair up that day. He remembered staring at her neck, thinking of the pulse below the skin, wondering if it was as fast as his own.

She was still beautiful.

Draco breathed, assessing himself now, and then. The longing had faded from what he saw on his face then. He remembered all of the curses he'd imagined for Weasley. And the memory of a daydream he'd edited into a worn loop came to him. They would be in the Owlery. Her cheeks would be pink with cold, and she'd be wearing the blue sweater that hugged her, for once. She'd try to walk by him, but he'd stop her this time, and he would say he was sorry, for all of it—Draco stepped from this old fantasy to ponder, with the dull ache of guilt, how much more he had to apologize for now.

But at the Owlery, she wouldn't laugh angrily. She would have been waiting for this, but she'd offer, _I thought you hated me_, and he would say _never_. He'd look at her, and she would let him step closer; she would let him take her hand and pull her to him. She'd look at him and smile, and he would feel relief and nerves as her eyelashes would flick down, her lips parting as she looked at his. Their first kiss would be soft, and his hand would touch her cheek, her hair. And he would forget everything that wasn't her; the image of his father flaying him alive wasn't there, in the Owlery.

He'd forgotten his father, most days. Now he also forgot eggs, fatigue, Dennis Creevey. He didn't forget Astoria. She'd said he should find Hermione, tell her he'd loved her. When she'd said it, he'd thought she was fanciful, making a poetic allusion to her openness and her trust. He hadn't considered she was writing a prescription he'd want to fill.

Every other woman before Astoria Greengrass who had been with Draco had hit a wall that no magic could make permeable. She was the first who was not a little afraid of him or disgusted by him. And for his part, she was the first whom he did not measure by the perfect scale of Hermione Granger. But this picture. But the loop of a boy's fantasy. He'd stuffed all of this in a box and shoved it far into a cupboard, yet it still rattled, demanding to be let free.

He needed to return it all to its rightful owner.

He summoned ink, parchment, a quill.

_Dear Dennis,_

_Thank you for your kind words. I hope Caroline is well. I shall keep one of these copies. The other is yours to do with as you wish._

_Draco Malfoy_

He tied this to his owl, and as the bird pushed off into the cold night, he felt a thrill of terror. _I've just slid all the Galleons to the pot, haven't I? _

With a burst of energy, he ironed a pile of clothing and tidied up. He found the driest book of potions he could find to read, and minutes after he finally slid into sleep, he dreamt of Hermione. They were at the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Hermione had offered herself up as a prize to be pulled from the water, but she was sinking lower and lower, bubbles popping at the surface. They started to slow. Potter and Weasley sat on the dock eating Chocolate Frogs, while McGonagall paced, saying something had gone wrong. Draco panicked, dove in, and grabbed her, though she kept slipping out of his arms. Her first, desperate gulp of air made him tearful with gratitude, but she turned to him, her heavy arms still around his neck, and asked _Why did you come now? Why did you wait for them to do nothing? _He felt himself grab for words. _I thought I was supposed to save you. _

Potter and Weasley laughed from their perch on matching deck chairs. Hermione grinned at them and regarded Draco coolly. _If only you'd known I wasn't the one who needed saving._

Draco woke with his heart pounding. He rolled over and fumbled for the duvet that had slid to the floor. He'd not slept with Astoria, but he missed her here, as though he had always needed a tumble of blonde curls on his chest to sleep, always needed to feel her breath in deep huffs on his skin, her arm draped over him.

When sleep finally returned, he was spared more dreams.


End file.
